Death by Insinuation
by FigNewton
Summary: Newton Greye, an inept private eye. is hired by Rogue to trail Toad. Mishaps involving angry Englishmen and romantic confusion ensue. BTW, Noah, I fixed my 'enter' key! Yay!


Newton Greye (No relation to Jean.  See the extra 'e'?) – Private Eye

In

Death by Insinuation

Disclaimer:  Much as I may think I do, I don't own anybody in here; X-Men are Marvel's, and Star Wars belongs to George Lucas.  I don't know who the hell Monty Python belongs to.  A bunch of insane British guys, I suppose.  Newton, however, is all mine.  So there.

Note:  I woke up one morning and couldn't remember any of the previous day.  Going onto my computer, I discovered this fic, which I'm assuming I wrote through Newton Greye, my alternate personality.  She has a tendency to get out of control and take over at times.  Therefore, I am not directly responsible for anything said in the following story; if you want to complain, talk to my subconscious.  Besides, we had a talk and I'm pretty sure she's making fun of _me for my Mort/Marie pairing in 'The Eye of the Beholder.'  Then when she was done with that she just decided to have some harmless fun._

It was just an average day at the office.  Nothing special, just me and my liquor and my Colt .45 whiling away another dreary afternoon.  Incidentally, my liquor consists of sugar and water, shaken, not stirred.  Colt .45 happens to be my cat.  I was considering going out to rustle up a little trouble so I could solve it later.  Ya see, I'm a private eye. 

            Business had been slow.  My cat was getting fat, and my aim was getting rusty.  But all that was about to change.  

            The door's characteristic creak heralded what could be the patron that would launch me back into action… or it could just be my landlady coming to complain.  But I was in luck; a slim young woman with luminous brown eyes stepped into my office, wringing her hands.  I knew the type.  The 'Oh-I'll-Do-Anything-Except–Actually–Pay' type.  I disliked her on the spot.  

            "So…" I took a long drag from my candy cigarette, propped my boots up on the table, and looked her over.  "Whatchya got for me, sister?"  She looked tentatively toward the chair in front of my desk.  Oh, so now the broad wanted to sit, did she?  Man, she'd better be paying.  I nodded and she sat down.

            "Ah… well, that is…" she faltered.

            "Lover's givin' ya problems, ain't he?"  She nodded.  Man, I could read her like a book.  That adorable child's face, those innocent puppy eyes, the guileless Southern accent that I was sure was a put-on: I could see straight through to the devious, slippery little viper she hid so well.  "Just give it to me straight.  And it'd better be good.  I ain't no marriage counselor."

            She looked toward the floor.  "Mah name's Rogue, and-"

            I interrupted.  "Rogue?  What kinda wanna-be hood name is that?"

            For a moment I feared for my life as her eyes flamed demonically.  "Well, what kind of a name is Newton, anyway?!  Yer a girl, and that's a GUY's name!!  Or maybe yer jus' named after a cookie!!!" she shrieked.  She soon regained control, however, sticking out her lip and behaving as though she was moments from tears.  "Ah jus' want someone to tell me if Mort's been cheatin' on me…."

            Forget her love problems.  This girl didn't need a detective; she needed a good shrink.  If she wasn't schizophrenic, I don't know who is.  Still, a job is a job, right?  And I was low on funds.  

            "I'll take your case."     

            "Oh, thank you!" she gushed.

            "You can thank me in cash, hon. Now tell me 'bout your little soup opera."

            She looked bashful as she began.  "It all started when ah was kidnapped by the Brotherhood.  No one knows, but ah touched Toad in a pathetic attempt to escape, absorbin' his memories.  Since then, ah've abandoned mah policy of exclusive infatuation with Logan and been secretly goin' out with Mortimer on the side."

            I raised an eyebrow.  "Okayyyy… and?"

            "And everythin' was jus' Georgia peachy for a while.  But now he isn't returnin' mah calls, or pickin' up his phone at all, and he's been avoidin' me, and he changed his locks.  Ah'm beginning to think he doesn't love me anymore!"

            I rolled my eyes and took a long swig from the bottle at my side.  I'd have to be heavily inebriated to deal with this one.  "Oh, no, why would you think that?…" I muttered, trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.

            "So ah thought about it, and we haven't argued or nothin', so it has to be another woman!  Ah want you to find out.  Ah brought a list of suspects."  She hunched, looking crafty and suspicious as her eyes darted this way and that, fingers twitching spasmodically.  "Ah'll bet it was Jean Grey, that slut.  Yesss… she's the one who's after my…my preciousssss….."

            "I'll be sure to keep her in mind." I eyed her cautiously.  Suddenly her gaze turned on me, scanning me like a low-grade tricorder.

            "Or maybe it was you…." 

            "Look, I don't even know your boyfriend-"

            "Perhaps an internet romance?"

            I'd had enough of this.  I vaulted the desk, took her by the shoulders, and carefully nudged her out the door.  "I'll call ya when I've got something, okay?  Okay.  Now just go home, take your pills, maybe find a straitjacket."

            The puppy eyes were back.  "You'll be sure to call?"

            "Oh yes."  Her answer was a nauseatingly warm hug.  God, I hate her type.

*          *          *

            The rest of the afternoon I spent gathering what info I could on a character named Mortimer Toynbee, a.k.a. Toad.  His haunts, hangouts, criminal records.  I'll admit, what I found was intriguing, and I don't often run into intriguing in my line of work.  I've seen too much for anything to interest me anymore.  Still, I found myself wishing that my client's accusations had been correct, that I WAS the mystery lover of her unfortunate boyfriend.  This wish was followed by the repeated slamming of my head into the wall.  Musn't (THUD) develop (THUD) crush (THUD) on (THUD) suspect (THUD)!  

Now then.

            The first step of a successful investigation is to monitor the subject.  Watch his actions and his interactions, then set up a pattern of interviews with acquaintances.  Aww, hell.  I'm talking like I actually have any clue what I'm doing.  I'm just gonna go stalk him.  Believe me, I'm good at it.  (The evil clowns taught me.)

            So I head out to this little pub, the 'Random Britishers in New York', or somethin', and sure nuff, there's my man.  Sitting with a bunch of his British homies, talking British slang, drinking British beer.  I feel about as out of place as a cheerleader in a Johnen Vasquez comic.  

            I walk up to the bar.  All eyes are on me.  "Uh… gimme a sugar water."  Oh yeah, that really quelled their suspicions, I thought sarcastically.  I headed to the smoky back of the pub, slumping into a lonely booth in the corner.  By the time Mort finally decided to leave, I was on my fifth and thoroughly soused.  I meant to stalk out unnoticed behind him, but my stumbling into bar stools and uncontrollable fits of sugar-induced giggling ruled out that possibility.  

            He turned suddenly, and I almost ran into him.  "Why are you following me?"

            I tried to suppress my giggles.  "I'm not.  I'm just leaving now too.  Is that so unconstitutional?  Or maybe you wouldn't know; you're probably too sore about our **winning to have ever read that!"  Through my laughing spasms and hysterical tears, I dimly saw about forty Englishmen behind me arming themselves with pitchforks, torches, and fresh fruit.  Touchy, touchy.  Well, ****I thought it was funny.  **

            "Okay, that was just bloody stupid."  Before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me and gestured toward another man inside the pub.  The man, a tall guy dressed in a khaki-colored tunic, ran out the door and into a waiting hovercraft.  He started up the vehicle and Toad shoved me into the back, jumping into the passenger seat just as the angry mob reached us.  Khaki-man floored it and we were gone.  

            "Ha!  That'll teach ya to mess with an American citizen!"  I yelled out the back window.  The two men in front glared in my general direction.  "Oops…."

            Khaki-man looked at me with obvious annoyance, then looked back at his comrade.  "**Must you always pick up strays?"**

            Mortimer shrugged.  "She's cute."

            "Shouldn't **I be enough for you?"**

            Mortimer ignored him and glanced into the back.  "What's your name, luv?"

            "Newton.  I'm a private eye.  Um… investigating you, actually."

            Khaki gaped.  "I knew it!  You picked up a fed!  We're going to prison!!"

            Mort shook his head.  "No worries, Obi-Wan.  She's too cute to be a fed.  They only hire old ugly chicks."

            Obi-Wan Kenobi cocked his head.  "You know, come to think of it, I'm only picking up incompetence vibes from her.  If she was an agent, she'd have to know far more about what she was doing than this girl seems to."

            It took me a moment to get that, but it eventually sunk in.  "Hey!  I do too know what I'm doing!"

            Obi-Wan looked at me incredulously.  "Then why did you just tell your suspect who you really are?"  I had to admit, I didn't really have an answer for that.  So I decided to switch to another tactic.

            "Look, mister, I'm the one who'll be asking the questions around here!"  Their mouths dropped open and Obi-Wan nearly forgot to steer, but I continued, absolutely sure I had them intimidated.  "I'm gonna start my interrogation, and you'd better not try nuttin'.  Ya don't wanna mess with this NY chica!"

            Obi-Wan rubbed his temples in frustration; Toad muttered, "Humor her."

            "So.  First question.  Kenobi, for $100, what's the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?!  Huh?!  Huh?!!"

            "African or European?" he countered calmly.  Ooh, he was good.  

            "Okay, never mind… next question.  Toynbee: Do you dye your hair?!"

            "Why the bloody hell would you be investigatin' that?" he asked.

            "I'm not.  I'm just curious.  Humor the rabid fangirl author."

            He shook his head petulantly.  "Can't make me."

            "Is that your final answer?"

            Obi-Wan couldn't take it anymore.  "This is **not how you conduct an interrogation!"  **

            I stuck out my tongue at him.  "Deal, Jedi-boy.  You'd better watch yourself or I'll break out the comfy chair.  Don't think I won't."  

            Toad leaned into the back and shot me one of his patented psychotic glares.  Whoa.  Now **that scared me into sudden soberness.  "C'mon, now.  Stop playin' and tell us why you're really 'ere."  **

            I glared right back.  Granted, I didn't achieve the stark bed-wetting terror I was hoping for, but it would have to do.  "You can't make me talk.  I know chow mein!"

            "Wha…?"  Obi stammered.  "Since when did that become a form of martial arts?"

            "Since I say it did.  So there."  

            "I'm serious, kid."  Toad sighed exasperatedly.  "Tell us w'ot you're after or we'll stop this car and hand you over to the angry yankee-hatin' mob."

            "Okay, fine!"  I broke under the pressure.  Hey, so would you if you had a swiftly growing crowd of englishmen calling for your head.  "Your girlfriend hired me to find out if you were cheating."

            Toad cocked his head in momentary confusion.  "Which one?"

            I nearly choked.  "Whaddya mean '**which one?!'  There's ****multiple chicks involved in this?!"**

            He nodded, rather calmly, considering the topic.  "And a couple o' guys."

            "Pull over… I think I'm gonna puke."  I groaned.

            "It's not my bloody fault, ya know."  He started to take offense at the intrusion on his personal life.  "All these fanfic authors pairin' me up all the time…. I appreciate the attention and all, but when the fic ends, I'm stuck tryin' to sort out who I'm dating.  I mean, people like Logan and Marie 'ave it easy; authors are puttin' them together all the time, so they don't 'ave to deal with a lot of confusion.  Or at least they didn't until **your_ alter-ego decided she'd look better with _****me!" he growled.  "Ask her w'ot she was thinkin' someday.  Marie's a nice kid, but she's not only a ****kid, she's bloody insane!  Either way, I almost never get paired with the same person twice, for god's sakes!"**

            "So?"  I asked.

            "So," he continued.  "I'm stuck with a bunch of dating relationships that I'm just too nice to break off."

            Obi-Wan started.  "You mean you've been going out with me out of charity!?"

            Toad held up a hand defensively.  "Hold on…"

            "No," Obi abruptly stopped the car.  "I don't have to take this.  I'm going back to Qui-Gon Jinn!"  He shoved Toad out the door, then gestured me into the street.  "You know what?"  He spat as he started up the engine again.  "I don't even find you **attractive anymore since you had those tattoos removed!  Loser!"**

"Well, guess w'ot?"  Toad shouted as the hovercraft sped away into the night.  "Those weren't even real tattoos!  They were magic marker!"   But the slighted Jedi was long gone, leaving me and my rescuer/captor/hostage alone in the street, facing a quickly approaching mob.  

I turned to him, a very important question burning itself into my mind like a hot poker on cattle.  "Hey, Mort?"

"W'ot?"

"Before we die…"

"Yeah, c'mon?" he prompted.

"I need to ask ya somethin'…"

He grabbed my shoulders in frustration.  "W'ot!!?"

I had to shout to be heard over the hellish screaming of the mob.  "DO YOU DYE-"  But the englishmen were upon us, smothering us like a very angry blanket.  I suppose the world was never meant to know.

I would describe the scene that followed, but it would contain far too many expensive stunts for a low-budget fic like this.  It also had a very cool soundtrack, but we can't have the band in here either because they would want **money.  So we'll just say that we kicked major ass and leave it at that.  **

Yeah, Mort had all his custom killer martial arts moves, not to mention a double-bladed lightsaber he pulled out of nowhere.  I pulled my Colt .45 from it's holster and… oh, wait.  Colt's my cat.  I guess he scratched and clawed some people to death.  Anyway, the important thing is that we won.  We walked out of the alley panting and bruised, but very much alive.

I turned and shouted back.  "Yeah, you thought ya could get rid of me, didn't you?!  Well, it takes more than that to dust Newton Greye!"

"You **so owe me for this."  Toad muttered.  **

"Hey, where we gonna go now?"  I asked cheerily as I bounced along beside him.  The street was deserted but for an eerie, clinging gray fog and the occasional flickering yellow streetlamp.  It was my city, aiight.

"**I'm going home," he sighed. **

"And I'm coming with you."

"No.  You're not."

I stepped in front of him, cocking my hip attitudinally.  "You're still under investigation, remember?  My client expects answers, and I intend to get 'em."

"But do you 'ave to **follow me?  Why couldn't you just ****ask?"**

"Yeah, right," I snorted.  "That's just not how these things are done."

"But-"

"Hey, who's the professional detective here, me or you?"  Men.  They always think they know **so much. "Where's home, anyway?"**

"I'm not going to be able to get rid of you, am I?"

"Nope."  I shook my head vigorously.  "Why do you think they call us gumshoes?  If you're unfortunate enough to step in me, I'm gonna stick to you till hell freezes over.  No way you're scrapin' me off, buddy."

"C'mon then," he said resignedly.  "We're going to the docks."

"Home's on a boat?"

"Try an island."

"By the way," I started to tie up a few loose ends.  "What were you doing with Obi-Wan Kenobi?  My alter-ego's read just about every fic with you in it, and she can't recall ever having seen the two of you together."

"We weren't," he answered.  "He and **Darth Maul were, though."**

"Oh…" A lightbulb went on somewhere deep inside a dusty corner of my brain.  "**Now that magic marker thing makes sense."**

"Yeah, that was one of my first jobs.  The pay was alright, but the dental plan sucked," he grimaced.

"Your current dental plan isn't much better," I snickered, recalling the purplish gums.

He ignored the comment, continuing to reminisce. "Betcha anything that prick Palpatine would get along right well with Erik, too.  A coupla guys too old for their wardrobes and hungry for world domination…."

"Someone should set them up," I agreed.

"Nah," he shook his head.  "Magneto's still sweet on Xavier."  I nodded thoughtfully.  

We were approaching the docks now, Mort leading towards a peeling, inconspicuous boat.  He jumped to the deck and headed for the controls in one fluid motion.  I vied for the ladder.

Soon we were underway, the little boat chugging evenly.  Unfortunately, the engine drowned out any hope of a conversation.  And even if it didn't, my companion was still looking a bit morose; I supposed he was sore about losing Obi-Wan.  Then again, it could've been that I wouldn't leave him alone….  Either way, I got tired of shouting and leaned over the side, watching the baby waves go up and down, up and down, up and… ugh.  Needless to say, **that hobby didn't last long.  **

I breathed a sigh of relief as the boat eased to a halt at a remote, craggy fortress.  Mort looked at me in curiosity as he dismounted (I was probably looking nearly as green as he normally did), then reached up to give me a hand down.  Asserting my self-sufficiency like the independent free agent I am, I refused… only to trip miserably over my own sea-legs.  

After I had recovered a reasonable amount of balance, we turned to enter the towering fortress.  I looked up at the twisted mound of rock and metal, and I swear I saw a flash of horror-movie lightning. "You'd think someone would wonder why this thing was here," I said incredulously.  "I mean, it's sitting right off the coast!  Why hasn't someone **noticed it?!!" **

Toad shrugged.  "You've no idea how many times I've asked that."

"It can't be a very **secret hideout," I murmured.  I think the seasickness had gone to my head.  **

Inside, it was nearly as dark as it was outside.  Just substitute the occasional flickering florescent bulb for the occasional star.  Cold, too.  I began to regret coming along, or at least to regret wearing the trenchcoat without winter lining.  

"Are you guys the only ones on earth who's thermostat has an 'Antarctica' setting?"  I shivered.  

"Erik hates wearing shorts," he explained.

            "Where is he, anyway?"  I asked.  The place looked awfully deserted.  

            "Bingo night, most likely," he answered.  "He claims the local nursing home has a few 'hot numbers.'"  Mort shuddered at the quote.

            "He and Chuck aren't exclusive?"

            "Not many people round 'ere are."

            We were passing through a long, narrow hallway now, paneled heavily in gleaming silver metal.  My eyes narrowed as the walls and floor began to vibrate with a heavy rhythmic thumping.  

            "What's that?"  I hissed.  "This isn't Jurassic Park."

            Mort simply nodded toward an approaching shadow; the lighting was still too dim for me to make out any conclusive features, but as it came closer, I distinguished the shadow as a seven-foot, leonine man.  Not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley.  The man looked at me and leered lasciviously, baring an unfriendly set of polished fangs.  

            "Cute kid…" he growled.  "You guys up for a threesome?"

            Mort cringed, but patted the giant housecat's shoulder companionably.  "Maybe later."

            "Yeah," I tried to look pleasant.  "Sorry.  It's been a rough night."

            The man shrugged and continued to walk in the opposite direction, much to our mutual relief.  As he disappeared down the hall, we could vaguely hear him muttering: "I wonder if that white-haired X-chick would mind a visit…."

            I turned to Mort as soon as the guy was out of earshot.  "Who the hell was that?!"  I whispered harshly.

            "Sabretooth.  Bloody furball."

            I added the name to my mental list.  "Your girlfriend's gonna freak when she finds out how many people you've been carryin' on with."

            "Hey!" he protested.  "I'll have you know that nothin' ever happened with Vic.  He just insinuates a lot, is all."

            I raised my eyebrows imperiously.  "Let's hope so."  

            Our walk was suddenly interrupted as a gray, commanding voice called out from an adjoining corridor.  "Toad!" it yelled. "My cape is stuck in the sliding door again!"

            Mort looked to me politely as he turned to answer.  "Excuse me."  He followed the voice, leaving me to my own devices.  

            _Guess Mags got back from bingo early, I thought.  Then I made a face at the possible consequences of his outing.  __God, I hope he didn't bring anyone home with__him.  Wait a sec, my grandmother lives at the local nursing home!**  I desperately tried to clear unwanted images from my brain, pounding my forehead against the wall in utter terror.  The resultant thudding kept me from noticing the svelte blue form creeping up behind me.  **_

            "That kills brain cells, you know."

            "Huh?"  I was dazed, but I managed to make out at least three blue people swirling and dancing fuzzily in front of me.  I pointed and laughed.  "Hey!  I see leprechauns!"  The leprechauns did not seem happy.  They were scowling in unison.  "Funny," I continued.  "I always thought you guys would be shorter…."  

            "I'm **not a leprechaun."  **

            "Then why are you doing a jig?"

            "Stupid druggie.  Who the hell are you anyway?  Toad brought you home, didn't he?  Stupid player."  As she spoke, my head slowly began to clear, and I realized that I was speaking with only **one very cranky blue person.  **

            "Wait a minute!" I exclaimed.  "You're no leprechaun!"

            "You're a bright one," she said sarcastically.

            My shoulders slumped.  "Then there **isn't a pot of gold…."       **

            "Are you **high?"**

            "Not that I know of," I answered.  "But you can never be sure.  I mean, I **am seeing blue people."**

            She balled a tight fist.  "I'll show **you a hallucination…."**

            Oh, so that's how it was, huh?  I mimicked a karate stance.  "Bring it on…."  

*          *           *

            The next thing I knew, I was waking up.  My head felt like a tiny accordion band on a 1500-watt amp was inside my ear.  It hurt.  And I can't stand accordions.

            The rest of my body felt like it had been worked over by a bad masseuse then thrown into the path of a steamroller.  Then given over to those englishmen.  No, wait; the englishmen would be worse.  It wasn't quite **that bad.  **

            "Ouch."  I muttered.  

            "Oh good, you're not dead."  I heard an older voice that I assumed was Magneto.  "Sloppy work, though, Mystique," he said.  "If we **had wanted her gone, you would be fired by now."  **

            "Did I kill her?" I mumbled.  I blearily saw Mort leaning over me.

            "Far from," he snorted.  "If you're going to be so bloody cocky all the time, you'd best be gettin' some self-defense classes."

            "And I know just the person to give 'em."  Uh-oh.  It was that voice again.  The leprechaun… er, blue chick.

            "I went easy on you, ya know," I informed her.  "I wasn't sure if you were up to the challenge, and I didn't want to hurt you."

            "I'm **so grateful."  She sure didn't ****sound grateful.**

            "Yeah, you'd better be," I slurred through a swollen lip.  "Next time I won't be so nice."

            "Ooh, I'm scared, kid.  Look," she said.  "I was just about to offer to help you learn some moves.  You've got spunk and long legs-"

            "What were you doing lookin' at my legs?" I demanded.

            She ignored me.  "But that's about all you've got.  I can teach you to use 'em, if you'll cut the crap."

            I eyed her warily.  "What's the catch?"

            "I just can't bear to see anyone waste potential, is all.  I'm kinda soft that way."

            Well, nuttin' to lose… 'cept for maybe my consciousness….  "Aiight," I grinned.  "You got a deal."

            "Great," she replied.  "We start as soon as you can walk."

            Uh-oh.  I shook my head.  Carefully, of course.  "Sorry, chica.  I still got a case to solve."  Suddenly, I was struck by a realization!  (Damn, why does everything around here find the need to strike me?)  She was trying to throw me off the case!!  It was all part of their master plot!!  "This is all a clever ploy, isn't it?!!"  Yeah, I had them now.  "**Isn't ****it?!!"**

            Mystique looked at me like I had three heads.  Hell, it'd been a weird night.  Maybe I did.  "What are you talking about?" she asked.

            "Don't play innocent with me!  You know exactly what I'm talking about!"  I took a moment to verbally consult with myself.  "But why would **she want me off the case…?  Unless…"  I turned back to Mystique.  "You're involved with him too!!"**

            Blue chick refused to meet my penetrating, albeit swollen, gaze.  "Who…?  You must be delirious…" 

            "C'mon, Mort!  Fess up!" I insisted.

            Mortimer shrugged resignedly.  "Okay, fine.  But no more than twice… I think."  Mystique glared at him and sullenly punched his arm.

            " '**I**** think'?  That ain't helpin' your case any, buddy," I told him.  "I'm gonna have one hell of a report to make to your little girlfriend."**

            "Look 'ere, I broke it off wit' the psychotic stalker a month ago.  The girl's fuckin' out of her head."

            "You can say that again," I snorted.  I struggled into a sitting position.  Wow, that hurt.  "But she's got a valid point.  While we're on the subject, is there anyone **else I should know about?"  **

            Mort cocked his head curiously.  God, I love it when he does that… no, no, no!  None of that.  Time for action!  Time for righteous anger!  Time for… ugh… time for an aspirin.  

            "You're done following me?" he queried.  

            "Hell, yes," I spat.  "I've got more than enough info to warrant a decent paycheck.  I'm through takin' abuse for you and your lil' soap opera."

            "For me?!  I never asked for you to-"

            "Not hearin' it, hon," I interrupted.  "I am **so outta here."  I prepared for a dramatic exit, only to find that my legs (plotting revolution, the treacherous bitches, after everything I've done for them…) refused to comply.  "Gimme a hand up, wouldja, Mystic?"**

            Mystique scowled and roughly pulled me to my feet.  I nodded in cool acknowledgment of her help, then sauntered toward the door.  Once there, I turned, my body silhouetted theatrically against the glaring streetlights and drifting smog.  

            "You know what, Mort?"  I tossed my chin defiantly in a perfect display of utter disdain.  He'd almost gotten me to **like him (Me!!  An independent businesswoman of the new millenium!!), and I sure as hell wasn't gonna let him get away with it.  I would leave him with the most biting insult known to man.  "You know what?  You're a ****chutch!"**

            Oh yeah.  I'm good.

*          *         *****

            The Brotherhood of Mutants collectively shook their heads.  

            "Rather an odd one, that," Magneto commented, pulling his purple cape tighter around him.  The fortress was getting a little cold.  Perhaps he'd turn the thermostat up to "Tundra."

            Sabretooth muttered something dirty under his breath; Mystique simply threw her hands in the air.  "This place is a madhouse," she said.  "I'm going to bed."

            Toad stood before the open door as the others walked off, one singular question furiously gnawing his brain.  It was the sort of question, he realized, that could very well consume his every waking moment for as long as he cared to live.  

"W'ot the bloody hell's a **chutch?"**

The End.

If we're lucky.


End file.
